I have a dream. No, sorry, I had a dream. The past tense is very much intentional, as once upon a time I had a dream and then mountains of laundry happened, dirty dishes piled up, dust rats and bunnies multiplied and had to be exterminated and don’t even get me started on The Great British Bake Off!
Here comes a story of my epic failure told in not so epic rhymes…
There was a time when I thought that by the time I was 34
I would have conquered the literary world
With an opus, a lengthy poem or an intellectual play
In my head I was Jo Conrad of the modern day
So I started with the Great British Novel, the quickest way to get to the top
I bought a notebook, a careful choice of design and colour, and no one would stop
Me from disappearing into a dark cave with my Muse, only to years later
Emerge pressing my Life’s Work to my chest, you haven’t seen a piece greater
Than this story of love, rain and crime in tune with the Scandi drama fashion
And I imagined that a man in a black suit, with a dodgy past and face pale and ashen
Would get me on a plane to L.A. to pick up my film rights and a hefty check
So I started writing – What the heck!
And when a half blank page mocked me two years into my typing
Full moon, a finished wine bottle and a fleeting thought proved that writing
Wasn’t an easy path to fame, fortune and at least one great award
So I considered other ways; instead of weeping
I looked ahead and finished the flask, and said Oh Lord
It’s difficult and it hurts. Also Proust, Tolstoy and Chekhov
Didn’t have the distractions of The Great British Bake Off
So I gave up on the novel but not the wine
And turned to poetry, the art so divine that I was pretty sure
My talents and my rhymes would have the allure of
The crème de la crème of the poetic scene
I searched for inspiration in chocolate and liqueur – Well, in moderation
I poured over Homer, some haikus and Shakespeare
And slept with a rhyming dictionary at my bed
And none the wiser, my Muse was gone, I whispered at dawn
Oh, heavens. No reply. Then I heard a voice. Just shake your head
And get those metaphors out – this is what good poetry is about
I did. I typed till my fingers bled
And I ran out of ink so I sat down to plan
How to get that Nobel Prize
It’s not that difficult to write a verse – you cut a sentence in two or three parts
Call them stanzas and find an arty title that no one comprehends
So you can only imagine, my sour surprise
That the Swedish Academy ignored my efforts and so did the other institutions of poetic arts
Oh come on you dinosaurs of Ars Poetica – I can count syllables and throw in a good rhyme!
Discouraged and defeated I gave up on poetry but this is not how my saga ends because
Brought up in extraordinarily strict conditions and harsh winters I knew how to survive
And would stumble towards the light at the end of this tunnel … so
I thought long and hard and tried to figure out how I was going to be famous
I met a friend who said Wait, I have a great idea, don’t you worry.
You can write a blog. It is nothing to be ashamed of and besides
Self-publication is in. These are the times we live in, everyone confides
In the Internet instead of their friends and yearns to have a global audience.
I consulted my Gut, Heart and Conscience
And the verdict was – Go, you have nothing to lose
At first I was amazed, so many stars on the blogging universe
And with the first post out, first like and followers (friends and family)
I embarked on a new journey – could have been much worse
The only problem being – soon I was behind, not many people read
My stream of consciousness that Joyce would love to have written, it all led
To a slow death of my self –esteem, my hope and my lifetime dreams
You see, I don’t embroider and crochet and I don’t take snapshots of what I cook
I’m not a political animal and I don’t bother with messy play, look
All I want is to write about my days, my child and myself, not bad themes
For posts that take me ages to craft, in between changing nappies and watching the XFactor
Oh why don’t publishers notice my talents! I despaired as I replied to one detractor
That tried to sell me some fat busting drink
And 3 days into blogging and no bloody fame I was on the brink of
Closing the shop. Who cares if I do, who cares if I don’t?
I will never be a blinding star, not even a slow satellite on the bloggy firmament
But before I left I gave it one more chance and took a photo of a stale croissant
I blogged about slaving in the kitchen, I lamented
It’s tough to be the perfect mother, partner and part time worker
And with a new follower and two likes later
I saw a light of hope, a mere spark of faith that it wasn’t all in vain
So tomorrow I’ll post about a knitted kitten in the cyber domain
And who knows, maybe this ballad will be a hit
Although I now realise that the rhymes are frankly …
Not very good
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